the Lady," Liath murmured. Hanna went on, not hearing this brief prayer. "But we haven't enough coin for the debt price. Or . . ." She hesitated. "Not even the bond price. It'll be the auction tomorrow. I'm sorry."
Liath went to the window and grasped an iron bar in each grimy hand. Peering up into the sunlight, she could not quite make out Hanna's face. "But Da's four books. Surely they brought a good price. Those four books alone are worth two horses."
"Didn't Marshall Liudolf tell you? Prater Hugh said those books were church property and he confiscated them. They're not to be sold at all."
"Lady's Blood," swore Liath, but the bitter anger, filling her, made her hurt everywhere. Why had Da trusted Hugh?
"I'm sorry —" Hanna began again.
"Don't be sorry. What could you have done?"
"If Inga hadn't been so selfish about her wedding feast, we might have been able to at least pay the bond price —
"It isn't Inga's fault. Prater Hugh means to pay the debt price, so it wouldn't have mattered."
"Even so, Liath, how did your Da run up such debts in two years? You never said anything. All this time . . ." Her voice dropped even lower. A shadow colored the ground and Hanna's chin and mouth appeared to Liath's view. A moment later, a strong hand gripped hers. "My mother says it isn't from natural pursuits ."
Hanna's hand felt warm in hers. Liath held it tightly. My father is a sorcerer. Of course it isn't from natural pursuits. But she could not say it aloud, not even to her dear friend. In the village they all had thought Master Bernard was a defrocked monk, a man who had dishonored his vow to Our Lady and Lord and been forced to leave the cloister because he had confessed to getting a woman with child. A churchman knew how to write. A churchman understood the power of herbs and hexes to ward off pests and sickness and worse evils. Da had never disabused them of this notion. It made it possible for the villagers to accept him without fear. A fallen monastic was a shamed man but not a dangerous one.
Only Prater Hugh had suspected. Only he had wormed himself into Da's confidence. Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind. She heard muffled voices.
"Hanna. Go."
"But, Liath —"
"Someone's coming."
"Mother is going to bring you food. I'll come tonight."
A key scraped in the lock. Chains met and rang softly.
Liath turned as the shadow vanished from the lip of the window. With a slow grind of wood against stone, t he door opened. Liath retreated until her back was against the wall. She lifted her chin defiantly.
Three figures stood at the door. Two entered: Prater Hugh and the marshal. Hugh carried a candle. The better, thought Liath coldly, to illuminate his handsome face.
"The book," Hugh said immediately in his clipped, arrogant voice, so unlike the honeyed tones he used to cozen her father. "After a night here, have you thought better of telling me where the book is?"
"Prater," interposed the marshal in a calm voice. "You have finished with the child's testimony, I believe. I am satisfied that she had nothing to do with her father's death." Marshall Liudolf had an accounts book clasped under one elbow. "Now, child," he said, turning to Liath, "I have tallied the whole of your father's debts and possessions, and Prater Hugh has copied them here, in these pages. I will list them to you now."
Hugh was staring at her. Even when she kept her eyes focused on the old marshal, she could feel Hugh's gaze. Four books he had found in the cottage; four books he had stolen, whatever he might say about the church. He knew there was a fifth book, one she had hidden.
Marshal Liudolf stated the tally aloud, not referring to the parchment, since he could not read. But his memory was good. The tally of debts was impressive, and the tally of possessions short in comparison: one bow, a quiver, and fourteen arrows; quills and scraping knife and parchment; a silver sceatta minted during the reign of the Emperor Taillefer; one cooking
Liath went to the window and grasped an iron bar in each grimy hand. Peering up into the sunlight, she could not quite make out Hanna's face. "But Da's four books. Surely they brought a good price. Those four books alone are worth two horses."
"Didn't Marshall Liudolf tell you? Prater Hugh said those books were church property and he confiscated them. They're not to be sold at all."
"Lady's Blood," swore Liath, but the bitter anger, filling her, made her hurt everywhere. Why had Da trusted Hugh?
"I'm sorry —" Hanna began again.
"Don't be sorry. What could you have done?"
"If Inga hadn't been so selfish about her wedding feast, we might have been able to at least pay the bond price —
"It isn't Inga's fault. Prater Hugh means to pay the debt price, so it wouldn't have mattered."
"Even so, Liath, how did your Da run up such debts in two years? You never said anything. All this time . . ." Her voice dropped even lower. A shadow colored the ground and Hanna's chin and mouth appeared to Liath's view. A moment later, a strong hand gripped hers. "My mother says it isn't from natural pursuits ."
Hanna's hand felt warm in hers. Liath held it tightly. My father is a sorcerer. Of course it isn't from natural pursuits. But she could not say it aloud, not even to her dear friend. In the village they all had thought Master Bernard was a defrocked monk, a man who had dishonored his vow to Our Lady and Lord and been forced to leave the cloister because he had confessed to getting a woman with child. A churchman knew how to write. A churchman understood the power of herbs and hexes to ward off pests and sickness and worse evils. Da had never disabused them of this notion. It made it possible for the villagers to accept him without fear. A fallen monastic was a shamed man but not a dangerous one.
Only Prater Hugh had suspected. Only he had wormed himself into Da's confidence. Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind. She heard muffled voices.
"Hanna. Go."
"But, Liath —"
"Someone's coming."
"Mother is going to bring you food. I'll come tonight."
A key scraped in the lock. Chains met and rang softly.
Liath turned as the shadow vanished from the lip of the window. With a slow grind of wood against stone, t he door opened. Liath retreated until her back was against the wall. She lifted her chin defiantly.
Three figures stood at the door. Two entered: Prater Hugh and the marshal. Hugh carried a candle. The better, thought Liath coldly, to illuminate his handsome face.
"The book," Hugh said immediately in his clipped, arrogant voice, so unlike the honeyed tones he used to cozen her father. "After a night here, have you thought better of telling me where the book is?"
"Prater," interposed the marshal in a calm voice. "You have finished with the child's testimony, I believe. I am satisfied that she had nothing to do with her father's death." Marshall Liudolf had an accounts book clasped under one elbow. "Now, child," he said, turning to Liath, "I have tallied the whole of your father's debts and possessions, and Prater Hugh has copied them here, in these pages. I will list them to you now."
Hugh was staring at her. Even when she kept her eyes focused on the old marshal, she could feel Hugh's gaze. Four books he had found in the cottage; four books he had stolen, whatever he might say about the church. He knew there was a fifth book, one she had hidden.
Marshal Liudolf stated the tally aloud, not referring to the parchment, since he could not read. But his memory was good. The tally of debts was impressive, and the tally of possessions short in comparison: one bow, a quiver, and fourteen arrows; quills and scraping knife and parchment; a silver sceatta minted during the reign of the Emperor Taillefer; one cooking
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